


Cherries

by uao



Category: One Direction (Band), Zayn Malik (Musician)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, F/F, F/M, Hand Jobs, Kissing, M/M, Pining, Public sex (not really), Romance, Sex, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-22
Updated: 2016-07-02
Packaged: 2018-07-16 12:40:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7268623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uao/pseuds/uao
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's like a splash of cold water, when Harry sees Zayn for the first time through his bedroom window in the basement. It's like a zap of electricity when Harry learns Zayn's name. It's the blossoming of a red cherry that bursts infatuation when Harry and Zayn become friends, weeks later. Harry always asks what Zayn's name is, when he already knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> I just began this today, be merciful, s'il vous plaît.

Harry has a small, rectangular window that sits above his bed; right above his pillows. When the sun rises, it shades hues of fuchsia and orange on his pale, milky skin; making the rainbow that he keeps hidden inside himself come alive with tentative courage – sometimes making him think that it’s better to keep the special parts of you hidden. When the sun sets, it’s darker than when it rises; it makes his skin seem more hollow and dull, like a rainbow hidden just beneath the clouds of a summer storm. It’s different every day, of course it is because no two sunrises and sunsets are consistent and like one another. The only thing that stays consistent is the rainbow that peeks out every once in a while and the boy Harry watches through his window; a stranger.

Harry doesn’t know his name nor his age, he simply knows that he lives two houses down – maybe three, Harry doesn’t travel outside too often when it is this humid outside for his curls seem to thrive on the heat and grow two times their size – but the boy is like nothing he has ever seen. This strange boy is the eighth wonder of the world.

Every Tuesday, the boy with caramelised skin travels down the gravel of his driveway with a trashcan not far behind; stationed at the left curb of his driveway for the garbage men to pick up and empty every week. On the right side, near the mail box that says 408, there is a red; rectangular bin with _recycles_ in white, bold letters that is always nearly empty while Harry’s is always nearly full. His family is organic, his mother says, and they like to try and help whenever they can. Harry knows this boy is helping, but in different ways, when Harry watches long fingers help his grandmother out of the car or when inked arms pick up what Harry presumes is the boy’s sister – one sibling of many – to twirl her around while she giggles and tugs on the boy’s black, inky hair.

While the boy’s presence and routines seem to be ever the same, his personal lifestyle and fashion sense is not, Harry recognises. He’s lost count of how many times the black, inky hair has been shaved, cut or dyed; how many different personalities shine through the other male like a sunrise shining through a mosaic window – there are too many different colours and patterns to be counted, but each is just as beautiful as the rest. In the end, the boy always go back to his original hair colour and black, slim jeans and white tee or jumper with the occasional leather jacket and boots.

It’s two months of watching, observing with his arm tucked under his chin and curls’ framing his face, that Harry learns his name. His window was open, to the black screen inside, because it was nice out and Harry loved to wake before everyone else and listen to the birds chirp and the leaves of the trees outside his window rustle, and the unknown family’s black SUV pulled into the driveway; spitting gravel from under the tires like bullets ricocheting from a riot shield. Harry had watched, teeth digging into his lower lip, as the family retrieved groceries from the trunk of the vehicle and carried them inside to be put away Harry presumed, and he was ready to close his window – he had seen this ordeal numerous times, including with his own family – when he heard a high pitched ‘ _Zayn!_ ’ and his head had snapped up, naturally.

He watched the wonder of a boy sigh and turn, two liters of soda in each hand, as he faced one of his sisters; an older one. It seemed like they were in a quarrel but Harry couldn’t care less for he just learned this boy’s name – so beautiful, rolling off Harry’s tongue easily; Zayn, Zayn, Zayn. He repeated the mantra a bit when he saw the boy each Tuesday and he repeated the mantra when he caught brown eyes through the screen of his window.

He never spoke to Zayn that month but the following one, he did. His mother had asked for him to retrieve the mail and he did, chewing on his lower lip as he squinted at the too bright sun, long fingers shielding hazel eyes from the blinding rays, and he heard the familiar kick of gravel and it made him freeze; halfway to the mailbox. Looking up, he met brown eyes once more and Harry’s feet couldn’t move for the life of him when he saw Zayn come towards him, crossing the two patches of grass to reach him, and his fingers twitched when Zayn came close enough to smell.

His scent was earthy but spicy, like that of the curry his family ate often and gave to their neighbours every holiday including Harry’s family, and like cologne – something expensive, Harry could tell – and then a scent that was very… Zayn. Unique. Zayn smiled at Harry, eyes crinkling and lips taut in a smile, and the tension released from Harry’s shoulders as he reciprocated the smile, trying not to worry about the fact that he was still in his pajamas while Zayn was in jeans and a long sleeved jumper; looking so _soft_.

“Hey,” Zayn hummed, crossing his arms as he gazed at Harry curiously, his voice a beautiful slur that Harry correlated with the caramel colour of his skin. Zayn was so smooth, even moving like caramel lined the joints of his limbs and the gums of his teeth as he spoke. “I noticed you peering through that thing you call a window, s’very small,” he laughs, raising a brow at Harry. Harry clears his throat, nervously running his fingers through his hair and he tried to ignore the way Zayn’s eyes followed the movement.

“Yeah,” he breathes, the exhale releasing more than just unneeded breath from his body; it calmed some of his nerves as well. “I – like to watch, you know? It’s better than the shit on television anyhow,” he jokes, sending Zayn a small smile; nearly apologetic for how awkward this all seemed to be.

“You like to watch, do you?” Zayn smirks, voice taking on a darker and more mocking note and Harry’s suddenly taken aback by the way things have changed so capriciously, making his cheeks turn a peachy pink that matches his lips as he bites them; ducking his head a moment to stifle laughter. He likes Zayn already.

“What’s your name?” Harry inquires, as if he hasn’t said it at least once a day since he found out, and it’s a bit frightening how much Harry has already become infatuated with a stranger but a bee falls in love with a rose before it pollinates it so, Harry figures he’s alright.

Zayn raises his dark brows, head cocking a bit and his hair – now shaved on one side and exposing pierced ears – follows the movement. Harry’s fingers itch with the sudden urge to slide his fingers through the strands like Zayn’s fingers ache to tangle in the tendrils of Harry’s curls. Some secrets are better kept as they are: secrets.

“Don’t you already know?” he murmurs, voice soft but his eyes are full of knowledge and suddenly, Harry has this twisting in his gut because he’s been caught. It isn’t like the churning of his stomach like when he was six and his mother caught him with his hands in the cookie jar; a guilty stabbing. It’s more like the butterflies in Harry’s stomach are all silent and no longer fluttering their wings, letting Harry speak for himself this time instead of following their lead.

It takes a few moments but Harry blurts out a quick ‘I have to go’ before rushing up the length of his driveway and into his garage, closing the door and heading inside. It’s only when his heart stops beating in his ears that he hears his mother say, “No mail today?”

Harry lies for the second time that day and tells her no, that the mail man must have skipped their house again; it wouldn’t be the first time that this has happened, having just moved here barely a year ago.

The next few days, Harry doesn’t look out the window of his bedroom. Instead, he moves from the basement to the attic, peering out the larger square there and he doesn’t realise it but Zayn is watching him too, from his own bedroom window where he wonders why names are such trivial things.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How are you guys enjoying this story so far? Sorry that I always take so long to update (ahem, my I Am Legend AU) but I try to update whenever I can, I'm a very busy person. Thank you for your patience.

The next time the mail comes, it’s via a knock on Harry’s front door instead of being left at the mailbox. Harry’s parents are gone to work, have been for a few hours now, and he was in the midst of heading to the kitchen for a snack when the knock echoed throughout the house. Harry sighs as he heads to the front door – he’s irritable when hungry, always a bit snappy and sharp, and right now, he’s ready to tell whoever is at the door that he isn’t buying whatever they are selling, he isn’t wishing to be involved with Jehovah’s Witnesses, and he isn’t interested in signing a petition for the park near his home to be bulldozed and replaced by a shopping centre. It’s happened more than once.

When he opens the front door, he expects the mail man or UPS, something that must need signed for but no, instead it is someone he definitely isn’t expecting: Zayn. All of his irritableness and courage to be bitter fades.

His stomach sinks to the floor near his fluffy sock-clad feet when he meets brown eyes for the third time this week, biting his lower lip as he struggles to think of something but Zayn has already beat him, as if this was a race and Harry is convinced it is; due to how smug Zayn looks.

“Thought I’d get you your mail this time, yeah? You seem to be forgetting it a lot,” he begins, an arm stretching out to hand Harry the white and vanilla envelopes which Harry takes, precautious. Zayn is sporting a black band tee, one Harry has never heard of, that’s ripped down the sides and lacking sleeves; letting Harry’s eyes wander not-so-subtly at Zayn’s ink. They’re beautiful, each piece that Harry eyes, and his fingers twitch once more to reach out and touch Zayn; to trace the pieces on his skin but like art hanging in a gallery, he isn’t allowed to touch.

“Thanks,” Harry mutters, tearing his eyes away from Zayn’s patterned skin in favour of searching through the mail instead.

Zayn hovers for a moment, unsure, until he asks, “Can I come in?”

It catches Harry off guard, the suddenness of the question that sounds more like a request than anything else, and he nods before stepping aside and giving Zayn room to slither in. He does, skin brushing past Harry’s and making the hairs on his forearm stand up like he’s been electrocuted. He doesn’t even realise that the front door’s still open and he’s still in the doorway like a fool until Zayn chuckles, “Are y’gonna close that, mate?”

Blushing profusely, Harry nods and closes the door while setting the mail on the side-table by the door where a glass, translucent bowl lays for their parents’ keys and then a metal, ombré envelope holder sits there as well where he discards the mail. There isn’t anything for him in there anyway, besides medical bills from his last visit to the hospital but – he can’t pay those, no matter how much he wishes he could.

“Are you thirsty or hungry? I was just about to head to the kitchen and get a cuppa, maybe some biscuits too,” Harry thinks aloud, glancing at Zayn as his fingers come up to brush his curly fringe out of his eyes. “Or, you know, I could get you something else as well?”

Zayn follows Harry through the living room and to the kitchen, passing the dining room, and he sits at a stool near the island, fingers splayed over the marble granite countertop while his eyes follow the patterns. Harry’s house is beautiful – not as extravagant as his own or as _rich_ looking but beautiful nonetheless – and it holds a more homey and earthlike feel to it; making Zayn relax as he takes in the family photos on the stainless steel refrigerator and the basket of fruit on the island in front of him that sits next to a bundle of bananas. A large one, at that.

“What’s on the menu?” Zayn inquires, flicking his hair out of his eyes as he looks up from his hands and focuses on Harry instead. He’s looking rather tired this evening, Zayn observes and his clothes echo that with the wrinkles in his lavender, soft jumper and the little tears in his black jeans but Zayn figures the rips and tears are for the aesthetic, just like the way that Zayn’s own band tee is ripped and faded. Zayn wonders what Harry would look like in his clothes. He flashes hot at the thought. Not exactly _his_ per se, but the style of leather and skin tight jeans, combat boots with buckles and a thicker heel than most, inked skin and longer hair.

He doesn’t know if it would fit Harry, really, with his soft jumpers that Zayn also has but then his faded converse with the untied laces and the fingernail that is sometime painted; tendrils of curls that barely reach his shoulders and soft, moss green eyes that rarely ever reach his own but when they do, it burns.

He’s drawn out of his thoughts by Harry’s rambling.

“… And there’s some fruit, too, obviously ‘cos they’re sitting right in front of you,” he chuckles nervously, hand rubbing the back of his neck and Zayn catches sight of the painted fingernail except – they _all_ are painted, all five of them and when Zayn checks the other hand, those five are coloured too.

“Hey, come ‘ere,” Zayn interrupts and he doesn’t miss the way Harry hesitantly pauses before doing so, teeth in his lower lip and god, Zayn’s only spoken to Harry twice and he already wants to tear his teeth out of his lip and let the poor piece of flesh rest for a bit. He doubts Harry ever gives his lips the time of day, given by how red and swollen they always seem to be. If Zayn had the chance to nibble or kiss those lips, he wouldn’t give them time to rest either.

Harry sits down next to Zayn, turned towards him with their kneecaps touching, and he inhales deeply before his head cocks in confusion a bit. Zayn, he’s weird. He’s differently unique and that’s a bit of a contradiction but Zayn is one, too. He’s got such masculine features and then eyelashes long enough to make Harry’s sister’s mascara collection jealous, he’s got lips thicker than his own mother’s, and he’s got such sharp yet delicate features and Harry is convinced that there is a god in front of him; having Zayn so close to him. It’s overwhelming and takes up all the oxygen in the room; demanding like a flashing neon light in the outskirts of a city in the night sky. See me, give me attention.

Zayn’s fingers brush over Harry’s knuckles, making the painted nails disappear for a moment, as if Zayn was imagining it (and he hopes he isn’t because it’s endearing, how sure Harry is about himself and the things he want, transparent through these little pieces of him that shine through). He smiles gently, looking up through dark lashes at the younger boy, watching him hesitate to speak up.

“I – like painting my nails,” he confesses gently, “They’re – I don’t know, it’s just relaxing and it makes me happy? I know how it is or how it looks like, how it seems like I’m – I don’t know, I’m sorry. It’s probably making you uncomfortable.”

Harry sounds so soft, so unsure all the sudden that it takes him back a bit. It makes Zayn’s heart hurt, makes him frown and he squeezes Harry’s fingers gently; he presses gently on his fingernails and gazes at the details – mint green with painted daisies on them, so intricate and elaborate. He could make a living or profit from this, painting nails, and Zayn can see it: Harry, delicate in a jumper and the sandals they offer when a pedicure is given, softly padding against the floor as he gets different nail polishes for a customer to try and gaze at. He could charm anyone, Zayn thinks, with the soft fluorescent lighting of a nail salon and the white apron conflicting with his pale skin; making him see more and more like a soft, gentle cloud.

“What does it seem like?” Zayn says softly, not wishing to startle this gentle atmosphere around them. “I think it seems like a teenage boy experimenting with different nail polishes and trying to see which he enjoys best. I think you’d look brilliant with a pale pink or a soft purple, almost lavender?” Zayn suggests, brow cocking as he gauges Harry’s reaction. “I can do it for you, if you want. Can’t promise to be good, I’ve done my sister’s nails for them a few times but nothing like your expertise.”

It’s surprising, how eager Zayn is to do something kind for Harry, first getting his mail for him and then offering to do his nails. Harry should say no, he should continue making them a snack instead, but this will give them some time together; it will let them touch like tectonic plates and they’ll crash, create an earthquake. Harry wants to shake like that, wants to be a ripple in the ocean that is unforgiving. He doesn’t want to be soft right now.

He always will be.

He nods, smiling gently, and they both decide on some fruit which Harry slices for them – some watermelon, strawberries, and kiwis with their bottles of water in between lithe fingers. It doesn’t take long until they’re in Harry’s room, sitting on his plush rug covering the wooden floor in front of his bed, while Zayn rifles through Harry’s organised crate of nail polish. Right now, he’s picked out the pale pink and lavender but a few metallic ones are catching his gaze as well while Harry’s attention is affixed on the way Zayn’s teeth dig into his lower lip, like a pearl in the midst of the rubble.

“Mm, I think I’d like to do these ones?” Zayn announces but he voices it like a question, mouth curling around the words like a question mark itself. He gestures to the metallic rose gold nail polish and then a soft, pearly over coat; making Harry thinking about Zayn’s ivory teeth once more. He can’t help but wonder what it’d feel like to have Zayn’s teeth digging into _his_ lips instead of his own teeth. “Are you alright with that?”

Harry’s more than alright with that. He’s ecstatic; excited as he nods and grabs a cotton swab, dipping it into the nail polish remover gently. He moves to begin to wipe the nail polish off his nails but like their greetings earlier, Zayn beats him to it again.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, watching the way Zayn wipes the nail polish off and he smears it a bit, little rubber-like spheres on Harry’s skin but Harry truly couldn’t care less. It’s worth it to have Zayn this close. “Could I ever, like, do your nails?” he inquires gently, apprehensively.

Zayn doesn’t even have to think twice about it. “Yeah, ‘course. What colour do you reckon would fit me best, hm?”

“Um,” Harry drawls, glancing at his crate of nail polish in thought. “Maybe a baby blue or a midnight blue?” he suggests.

“Yes,” Zayn beams, smiling at Harry and the nail polish remover spills onto Harry’s baby blue rug, bleaching it and making the shape of a cloud. Harry isn’t mad, simply smiles and brushes it off; he can always get new rugs but he can’t get an experience, a _memory_ better than this.

They talk, hushed and infatuated, and maybe, after they paint each other’s nails and let them dry, Harry lets Zayn spill the nail polish a few more times and watches this boy steal the sky; putting it in Harry’s own bedroom.

Zayn’s a star, reserved and keeping most of his light hidden while Harry’s a star gazer, telescope pointed out of his window and watching, murmuring, “I want to see you bright” when one particular star starts to dull.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if enjoyed please: leave kudos, comment or bookmark. Feedback is always welcome. Merci beaucoup.


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